


His Queen

by basenji18



Category: G.I. Joe (Cartoon), G.I. Joe - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 15:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30091104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basenji18/pseuds/basenji18
Summary: A prequel to Southernpeach13's Their Princess Saga. Years before the events of Renegades, James and Anastasia meet.
Relationships: Anastasia "Baroness" DeCobray/James McCullen Destro XXIV
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Southernpeach13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Southernpeach13/gifts).
  * Inspired by [His Princess](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27504568) by [Southernpeach13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Southernpeach13/pseuds/Southernpeach13). 



When he first met the girl, she was still a girl, and that, of all the things that happened, is his biggest regret. She was alone, she was upset, and she was young, and it was his responsibility to keep things from unfolding as they did.  
And he failed.

He first meets the Russians in the middle of the jungle, miles away from either of their origins.  
Sweat runs down his sides, plastering his shirt to him. There’s a swampy squish under his arms every time he moves. The hair on the back of his neck is wet as if he’s just stepped out of the shower. His feet are roasting inside his shoes. His father insists they remain businesslike and well dressed. He says it makes them look respectable. James thinks they look like two giant white fools sweating to death among the small, brown locals who know better.  
Still, he doesn’t argue. The old man is still the old man, and James is still here as his apprentice. He keeps his mouth shut and his ears open.  
They’re in the country on a sales trip. Nothing like a little governmental insurrection to boost sales at MARS, and this small country has had more than its share of both governments and insurrections. James isn’t really sure which party is officially in power at the moment - nor, he suspects, are many of the locals. In that respect, his father is right: power is held by the one with the largest gun.  
Their clients run their operation guerrilla-style. No swank hotel room meetings for this. The Scots meet them out in the jungle, in the villages. James can’t say all the villagers are happy to see them.  
When he meets the Russians, they are on a very different mission. James hears them first, the local dialect being spoken with a distinct accent, to the sound of local laughter.  
He comes around a hut to see a dark-haired man smiling in the center of a small group. A cluster of women and children surround him. The man says something and they laugh at his chatter. One of the women corrects him. He tries again, butchers it once more to their amusement. He rolls his eyes at himself, but he doesn’t really seem embarrassed. He hands the woman who corrected him a bundle. One bundle for each woman, then come smaller treats from his pockets for the children. He says something else and no one corrects him, the women moving off with calls and waves of thanks. The man waves, grinning like a pleased fool. He notices James, and gives him a wave too. James returns it, walking over.  
The man is a slim beta, dark-haired, even paler than the Scot. Like James he’s in khakis, but unlike James and his father, the dark-haired man wears a light linen shirt and open sandals. James feels a sweaty pang of jealousy. The man extends his hand, still smiling with all the open-faced goodwill of a Labrador.  
“Good morning. Are we speaking English?”  
He is, but with a Russian accent. Imagine finding a Ruskie out here, and one greeting a stranger with a smile.  
“We are. James McCullen XXIV. I’m here with my father, for - “  
“MARS Industries. I know.”  
His smile doesn’t falter, but James can’t quite read his tone. Their handshake ends, and the beta hooks his thumbs in his pockets. He smiles.  
“Sorry. What I meant is, we knew you were in the area too.”  
“Who is ‘we?’”  
“Ah, more apologies. My name is - “  
“Baron Eugene Ciserov.”  
James’s father appears from the cluster of huts. The heat has everyone’s scent baking off of them and James smells him even from behind him, the alpha alpha male. The Baron doesn’t say anything, but his hands don’t leave his pockets.  
“The Baron here is a philanthropist in these parts,” McCullen senior says. “Back here on one of your supply runs?”  
“Somehow they keep being needed.”  
“So who is ‘we,’ then? Got a team now, do you?”  
The Baron’s face lights up a bit again.  
“Ah! Da da da da, yes. Well, we both have our partners this time, don’t we? Oi, Stazi.”  
He turns and calls something in Russian into the hut behind him. The cloth covering the door moves aside.  
James doesn’t believe in premonitions, but in the half second before the curtain moves, he knows what comes next will change his life.  
She’s beautiful from the first moment he lays eyes on her. Like her brother, she’s fair-skinned and dark-haired. But while her brother’s eyes are blue, hers are dark as her hair, framed by a pair of glasses which give her fierce, aristocratic beauty a grounding touch. She takes in all three men without frowning or smiling. James feels odd. Like he’s being measured, weighed. Evaluated.  
“This is Laird and Mr. McCullen, of MARS,” the Baron says. “Gentlemen, this is my younger sister, Anastasia Ciserovna.”  
James can tell their names mean something to her. The girl’s eyes narrow, looking more sharply at them. Unlike her brother, she steps up and extends her hand, tilting her chin up to meet his father’s gaze.  
“A pleasure to meet you, sir.”  
If anything, her accent is thicker than her brother’s, her voice deeper than James expected. She pumps his father’s hand with all the assuredness of a fellow businessman, though his hand swallows hers.  
“The pleasure’s all mine, lass.”  
The corners of her mouth turn up a little more. She turns to James and reaches for his hand.  
She’s beautiful. Truly beautiful, long dark hair and big dark eyes. Eyes with depths so far back he can’t begin to fathom, and a kind of living spark dancing in them. A wise wickedness to this beautiful, sweet thing.  
Her smile widens at his hesitation. The tips of ivory fangs peek beneath her upper lip, and he realizes the faint sweet scent is not the flower in her hair. An omega? She has more alpha energy than her brother.  
She purses her lips and raises an eyebrow at him, and he realizes he still hasn’t shaken her extended hand. He gently takes her fingers, bends down and kisses the back of her hand.  
“Charmed,” he says.  
She takes her hand back with a look that tells him he’s corny, but he gets to see those little fangs peek out again as she smiles. She turns back to his father. There’s no shyness in this girl.  
“What brings you to the village?”  
As if she didn’t know. James and Eugene both squirm in place, but the old man grins at her audacity.  
“Making deliveries,” he says.  
“Oh? Us too.”  
That gets James attention.  
“What would you be delivering?”  
“Food and medicine, mostly,” Eugene jumps in. “Supply lines have been cut to the area recently, and with the lack of clean water, infection rates are still high. We’ve got a load of dry goods and antibiotics. We’re meeting a contact of mine in the area to get them distributed.”  
“And you brought your little sister to the middle of a war zone?”  
The words are out of his mouth before he can think, and James feels the force of the glare she sends his way. Eugene sees it too and laughs.  
“This area is stabilized, at the moment.” There’s a weight to these last words that’s aimed at the arms dealers, but which everyone ignores. “Stazi has been wanting to come with me for years. This seemed like a good way to bring her onto the team.”  
“And it doesn’t hurt to have a young lady with you to help connect to the women and children refugees,” the old man says.  
“Everything’s a business,” the Baron says dryly.  
“Well then, we’ll leave you to yours and be about ours,” McCullen senior says. “Baron. Lass.”  
Baron Ciserov keeps his hands in his pockets, merely nodding as they leave. His smile is gone. His sister takes the old man’s hand again and shakes it in farewell. That unreadable expression is back on her face. Watching them all. Taking them in. James looks over his shoulder as he and his father round another hut, moving deeper into the village.  
A heavy arm lands around his shoulders.  
“Put it out of your mind, boy.”  
“What?”  
His father laughs. Their smells mingle, two sweaty alphas in their ill-advised clothes.  
“If you’re anything like your old man, pretty omegas with big eyes and sweet faces are going to get you in more trouble than all the warlords in the world. Trust me, lad: that one’s more dangerous than anything we’re selling. Best leave it alone.”


	2. Chapter 2

Two gunshots ring out. In the surrounding jungle they rebound, dampened and distorted and amplified randomly, making it impossible to tell where they come from.  
The people running in the opposite direction are a pretty good indicator, however.  
James freezes, listening for something to tell him what’s going on. He expects to hear angry voices, return fire, screaming.  
He does not expect to hear the girl.  
Screams in Russian. He can’t understand the words, but he understands her tone. His legs carry him toward the noise, using his bulk to plow through villagers running the other way.  
Quite a set of lungs on the girl. A note of anger comes into her yells, a snarl. James round the last cabin and sees the scene: the girl, and the three grown men it’s taking to hold her back. With a final, animal shriek she rips at the one holding her around her chest, kicks free of the other two, and falls into the hut where she and her brother had their charity supplies. The curtain over the door swings shut, and none of the men follow.  
James is striding after her, without plan, without thinking. Where is her brother? In the hot jungle, a cold chill washes over his neck.  
The inside of the hut is dim. Even with the canopy cover over the village, James has to stop and let his eyes adjust. He hears her before he sees her, her voice softer, moaning, calling out.  
“Zhenya…Zhenya!”  
Two pale forms materialize in the dark, one bent over on the ground…and one stretched out upon it.  
Oh no.  
He doesn’t know the Russian words, but he understands their meaning. Wake up. Please wake up.  
Eugene Ciserov lies still on the earth floor. His light-colored shirt is stained dark. Anastasia kneels over him, trying to stem the darkness. James can see she’s already too late.  
He can’t find words. All he can do is move forward, stooping under the low ceiling, come up behind her and lay his hand on her back.  
She whirls on him with fangs bared and eyes flashing. He withdraws, hands open to show he means no harm. Her eyes soften as she recognizes him. Her voice is kitten soft and small.  
“Help.”  
His heart twists.  
“I can’t.”  
She turns away from him, back to her brother if he’s going to be useless. She leans on his chest in the center of the wound. Trying to stem the bleeding, but there’s too much of it already spilled out of him. He’s not breathing. There’s nothing she or anyone can do.  
James kneels down next to her. Puts his hand on her back. She ignores him.  
“Come now. Let it go.”  
“No.”  
“Lass - “  
“Don’t call me that! I’m the same as you, almost.”  
She won’t stop, won’t give up. He reaches down to take her hands, her brother’s blood squishing between their fingers. He’s about to say something else - he’s sure it will figure itself on the way out of his mouth - when her hair swings.  
Her scent wafts up into his face. Warm and sweet and full of dark distress. It wakes up something inside him, lights a fire in him. And it jogs a memory loose.  
“Stazi,” he says softly.  
She stops. Hands still buried in her brother’s blood, hair still covering her face. She trembles slightly under his hand.  
She looks up under her curtain of hair, her face pale, her eyes huge and glistening behind her glasses. They suck him in and hold him. He takes his unbloodied hand and strokes her cheek.  
“Here,” he says. “Come on. Come with me.”  
He pulls her hands away from her brother’s body, taking both of them in one of his own. Helps her up, tucks her under his arm. Leads her back toward the outline of light around the curtain. She tries to turn back once. He gently shepherds her, trying to block her view of the body.  
She winces at the light outside. All of her bravado and determination from inside is gone. She shrinks against him, huddles under him.  
People have stopped running and come to stare. James’s father is among them. McCullen Sr. looks at the girl’s white blouse splotched red, her hands and arms covered, and then looks to his son.  
“Ciserov’s been shot,” James says.  
The girl shoves her face into him at this, and he tightens his hold on her. His father’s mouth sets, and the old man nods.  
Two of the men who tried to hold her back come and take the girl. James nearly decks them. His shirt comes untucked as her fingers pluck it loose, trying to hold onto him. He’d fight for her, but the old man is here with his own men, and both young people are herded away from each other. With a set of rough hands on each of her arms, the girl makes final eye contact with James.  
He’s still falling into them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

“Was it one of ours?”

James and his father are back in the bungalow, a small collection of little more than freestanding garages with what passes for running water and two metal frame beds. Here the two men can lounge in their undershirts without being improper.

His father wipes sweat off his brow.

“Of course it was one of ours. The bastards were two-timing him. Buying from us, taking from him, selling to the other side, and buying more from us. Ciserov must’ve found out, and they shot him.”

James makes some kind of noise. His father looks at him.

“Look, it’s unfortunate, lad, but that’s the way this business goes sometimes. Don’t worry, I’ve met with our contacts. This won’t affect our trip.”

“Do you think she’ll get home alright?”

His father looks up.

“His sister, you mean?”

“Aye.”

The old man shrugs.

“They still come from money. A little thing like that, no one’s leaving her on her own. She’ll be safely home by evening. Sadder, but wiser, but that’s the way it works sometimes.”

“I’d like to see her before she goes. Make sure she’s okay.”

“The child is not okay, I assure you. But if you want to soothe your white knight urges, the Ciserovs’ bungalow is two down.”

“What?”

“Third building on your right, boy. Be about it if you’re going.”

* * *

He knocks, hoping it’s the right door, no clue what he’s going to say if it is. Her voice floats through the thin wood.

“Who is it?”

“It’s James McCullen.”

The soft sound of a latch unlocking, and the door creaks open, a spectacled face peering around it. She sees him, and the door opens wider.

“Mr. McCullen. Please, come in.”

Her cheeks are pale and her eyes are red. She’s obviously been crying, but she welcomes him in and gestures beside the door.

“You can leave your shoes there. I’m sorry we don’t have guest slippers, but you can wear Zhen - I mean -”

Her voice breaks and she sniffs, dips her head and hides her face in her hands. Her shoulders vibrate. James slides one arm around her, drawing her close. He lifts her chin with a finger and gives her a small smile.

“Why’re ye calling me ‘Mr. McCullen?’ You’re almost the same as me, after all.”

She still shivers, but her mouth breaks into a small smile between the tear tracks. Her nose is pink with crying, a clear drop trembling at the end of it. James takes a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs it off. Anastasia accepts the cloth and gives her nose and eyes a good wipe, leaning into him.

“Can I offer you something?”

Her voice is muffled against his chest and inside the handkerchief. The room is bare. What kind of refreshment is she going to give him? Tap water?

“Just this. I just came to see you.”

“Sp-spaciba…I mean…”

“Shh. It’s okay.”

Her head doesn’t crest his shoulder. The width of her fits inside his. James wraps around her, as if to warm her, tucking her under his chin.

The room is bare except for a pair of suitcases. There’s no one else here.

“Isn’t someone staying with you?”

“They are taking care of Zhenya.”

So much for not leaving her alone. James snorts in indignance. They could at least have left her with the village women.

“How many helpers does a dead man need that they can’t spare one for a living girl?” he growls.

Anastasia shakes in his arms, and he realizes what he’s said. But before he can apologize, he hears her chuckle. She nuzzles into him, wiping her tears on his shirt. He takes a deep whiff of the top of her head.

Oh dear.

Omegas can go into two kinds of heat. There’s the regular hormonal cycle, but there’s also what’s called reactive heat, where stress or high emotion - any emotion - can drive them into a frenzy, seeking comfort and protection.

The girl has gone into heat. Her sweet scent is sharper and honeyed, strong and floating off her. It takes hold of his brain and electrifies his spine, locks his arms around her.

It’s got her too. Her muscles relax as he holds her. The sharp smell of distress ebbs out of her scent. She rolls her head, pressing into him, making small noises. He’s about to say something when she tilts her head up and kisses him.

She’s warm and tastes like fruit. She reaches up and runs her hands through his hair, dropping the handkerchief. She slips one hand down and starts undoing buttons on her blouse, pressing against him, kissing him all the while. Her smell fills the whole world, overriding all other smells, clouding out his brain.

This is where he should stop it. Gently button up her shirt and dry her tears, take her out for a sweet coffee and a pastry, somewhere there is fresh air and people. This is where he should be responsible and take care of her.

And damn him, he doesn’t.

She wraps her arms around his neck, working at his collar, pressing the bare skin of their chests together, already sweaty in the heat. James finally kicks his shoes off. He wraps one arm around her waist and pulls her close, buries the other hand in her hair. It’s long, thick, and dark as the jungle, and as he runs his fingers through it, clouds of her scent flood his face. Sweet and honeyed and musky with heat, he opens his mouth to the tang and finds her mouth already open, slick tongues getting into the mix.

Anastasia squirms against him, trying to hold onto him and struggle out of her clothes at the same time. She gets halfway out of her blouse and gets stuck, arms pinned behind her at the elbows. She mewls in distress. James laughs, takes her face in both hands and kisses her before helping her free. She spreads his shirt open and buries her nose and fingers in the ginger hair on his chest and breathes deep. James takes her elbows and leads her gently back until she hits the bed and sits.

She looks up at him, a heart-shaped face with big dark eyes made bigger and rounder by glasses. Her eyes still glisten, but that spark plays inside them, and some of the pink has left her eyes and gone into her cheeks. She wears a plain, beige bra and her light skirt, no shoes.

His skin burns hot. He wants to have her, and he wants to protect her. He wants her to feel good, and he wants to be the one to make it happen.

He’s flooding hot, musky scent into the room, a thick bass note while hers sings over it like an accent. Their smells are harmonized, and the sound fills his head.

It has no less effect on her. She reaches back and unsnaps herself, holding her arms up in unspoken request. He slides her bra straps along her arms and drops the garment to the floor, sweet white breasts with caramel nipples open to the warm air.

He strips off his shirt and drops it with her bra. He kneels, him between her knees and her between his arms, and they kiss with her dark hair falling all around, sequestering them.

Mouths are hot and they’ve fully overwhelmed each other’s scent receptors. Gradually his kisses move. Along her hairline, the base of her neck, the dip of her collarbone. He kneads her shoulders and back, her body curvy, the muscle lean and hard from fencing or field hockey or whatever young lady’s school sport she plays.

He rolls a nipple between his fingers and she whines and arches into it, so he starts doing more of that. Her breathing turns harsh and panting, like she’s running in one of those school sports, and her hands leave his head and shoulders.

James pulls back, thinking she’s trying to push him off, when he sees that she’s pushing at the waistband of her skirt, trying to struggle out of it as she’s sitting on it, her small noises growing frustrated.

He kisses her, standing as he does, leaning her back on the bed. She sighs in what sounds like relief as he pops the zipper and slides it down, the skirt joining the growing pile of clothes on the floor. She’s in only her panties and glasses now - the latter hotter than he could have imagined - and she arches her hips in invitation.

He hooks his fingers into waistband elastic and slides them down. The crotch of her underwear is soaked. A shimmering strand stretches from her dark patch of hair to the cloth for a moment before it snaps. The smell that greets him forces James to unzip his own trousers to relieve the growing pressure.

She’s on the bed in front of him, naked and open, the spark in her eyes a full-fledged wildfire. She parts her knees and extends a hand.

“Please.”

Once again he kneels before her. He puts her thighs up on his shoulders and slides her to the edge of the bed. Her hands play along his arms and in his hair, stroking, petting.

Under her dark hair everything is glistening and pink. Clear, sweet-smelling fluid weeps down her inner thighs and drips toward her rear. James reaches out his tongue and strokes a long pass over the whole wet gloriousness. Anastasia moans and grips the sheets.

The taste of her his her smell, amplified. His mouth floods with saliva to match the juices flooding from her. When he goes fast, her breath speeds up to match. When he slows down, she whines and whimpers and knots her fists in the sheets. He kisses her like he kissed her upper mouth, delving his tongue in deep, and she presses her hips into his face.

She starts to squirm and actively push against him. He focuses his tongue up on her outer bits, inserting first one and then two fingers inside her, stroking, pressing. She’s hot and slick and textured inside, swollen with blood flow and sucking at him internally. She gasps rapid-fire as he speeds up, her whole body going rigid, until her thighs clamp shut around his head forcing him to stop.

He trails his fingertips up and down her thighs as she comes down from her peak. He stays that way until he starts to worry what oxygen deprivation may be doing to his brain. He gives her knees a little nudge apart. She lets them fall to the side with a sigh. James starts trailing his fingers again, kissing her, not in the most sensitive places he's just left, but at her hairline, in the crease of her thigh, across her lower belly. She murmurs and runs her fingers through the hair on his head.

She sits up, grinning. She kisses him and gets both their faces wet, laughing when she pulls away and strands of her long hair stick to his cheeks. James traces the lines and curves of her face with a finger. He goes to tenderly remove her glasses, but she takes his hand away and shakes her head. He smiles.

"Okay."

More kisses. His knees on the hard floor ache distantly, but his lips ignore them.

Something between them is growing insistent, however.

So is she. The heat smell is still on her, still in both their mouths. Her breathing grows harsh, her fingers turn to claws. She doesn't fight when he breaks their kiss and stands up.

The look on her face. Either she's a virgin, or she's only been with betas. Her expression when she finds herself face to face with - well, him - is downright comical. James laughs despite himself as her eyes go round as her glasses, and the self-confident smirk is replaced by a look of surprise.

He's about to tell her she doesn't have to, doesn't need to try anything she doesn't want, when she reaches out and grabs hold of him right at his root. Now his eyes go wide. But she doesn’t do anything rash. Gentle pressure from her fingers teases him, squeezing, pulsing, running lightly up and down. It's glorious, sending him further into his barely controlled frenzy.

That calculating look is back on her face. Thinking. Measuring. Deciding her angle of attack.

She leans forward and kisses him.

His knees turn to water and his hand reflexively buries itself in her dark hair. She moves his hand to the side of her head, but doesn't take it off. He strokes her cheek through the long, dark curtain.

Now he's the one panting. There's no way she'd ever get all of him in her mouth, and she doesn't try. She keeps one hand at his base, gently pulsing, and her mouth at his tip, occasionally licking down along his length. Tasting him, smelling him.

Betas will just never get it.

There's not a trace of teeth in her love, just a small, hot wetness touching him here and there, coming back up to envelop the smallest end of him, and then back.

He has both hands on the sides of her head, not pushing, not holding down. Just stroking. Just holding her. She leans all the way in and nuzzles into his second patch of hair the way she did up at his chest. She pulls back and the wicked spark in her eyes is in full conflagration. She edges back on the bed, knees spread.

She holds out a hand.

He covers her with himself, diving right into the junction where her neck meets her collarbone. Anastasia wraps herself around him, arching, using her whole body to touch and press against him. Her legs lock around his hips, and a small hand snakes between them to help him find the connection.

No fingers anymore; her whole palm wraps around him, guides him in a luscious sea of hot wet to the source of all heat.

He pushes and she pushes back, and the first few inches are a glorious hot slide. Anastasia gasps and holds him, and James runs his tongue right over her nape where her scent glands are strongest.

"Stazi..."

"Mmn, nyet. Only my brother calls me that."

"Ana?"

"Better."

They start a rhythm. Every time he pushes forward, she pushes back eagerly to meet him. This is not a passive omega. She drives up with a force that could buck a lesser partner off the bed. It's hot, sweaty, smells like a barnyard -

\- and it's glorious.

But after a few minutes, they're still not fully connecting.

Anastasia's thrusts grow slower, grinding. She gets her heels under her and presses against him until she makes herself whimper. James stops. Ana looks distressed.

"You're not in."

He's quite a bit in, thank you, but he knows what she's saying. James is in full rut, a heavy gland swollen at the base of him, and it's not getting into the omega under him, and he's not sure it's going to, frankly. He tries to make her feel better.

"Oh, well...that happens, sometimes...we don't have to..."

Maybe he can get her off and she'll put her hands around him again, or they can get in position where he can stroke himself with her curled up against him. He wants to hold her close and smell her hair while he finishes.

Ana purses her lips and gives him a look which James thinks he'll grow very familiar with during his time with this woman. It makes him feel a fool, but not in the cut-down way his father sometimes does. It's a look that says, "Listen, you moron, we'll figure this out."

"...Maybe another position?"

"Sounds lovely."

He pulls out (rather sadly, but he promises the lad he's going back soon) and sits on the bed with her. She sits up cross-legged, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly very prim-looking. Naked, sweaty, and flushed, she still looks fierce and competent. James feels somewhat stupid sitting there with his hair a mess and his cock out.

"So, uh...did ye have a way in mind, or...?"

That look again tells him he is failing as the alpha in this equation. To be fair, there's no blood in his head, and he's beginning to suspect that those glasses are always going to make him go stupid. Anastasia arranges him, nudging him back toward the headboard, seating him upright against the thin pillow, and straddling his lap.

On top is her element. She doesn't wait for him, but crushes him against the wall and kisses him, slides down on him and rides, thrusting down with long strokes, her thighs working like pistons.

James follows her lead and does as he's told, working his hands where she puts them, using his mouth on whatever she puts in it. She drives and he rides and it's wonderful. He looks forward to the bruises.

Ana starts to make noises again, breath driving out of her every time she drives herself down onto him. Hair is plastered to them, their skin sticks together.

And it's still not quite enough.

The omega growls in frustration. There are tears in her eyes as she grinds one final time, sitting on his knot and trying to force herself down around it, and failing. She slumps forward on his lap, panting, and bites his shoulder in frustration. The tips of her fangs scrape, but don't break the skin.

"Fuck!"

James pats her back, cradling her.

"It's okay, it's okay. Here: turn around."

She does what she's told, him finally acting like the alpha. He turns her around in his lap, not putting himself back inside her just yet. He pulls her close and rocks her, swaying in place, trailing his fingers over her skin, murmuring soft nothings in her ear. The tension melts out of her, the sourness of desperation out of her scent. She cuddles back into him.

“Ready to try again?”

“Mmm…da.”

She raises her rump and he positions himself, sliding back down to their familiar length.

“Relax. Just relax. Bear down when it goes in. It’ll only take a second.”

She whimpers, but takes a deep breath through her nose and lets it shakily out through her mouth, and he feels some of the tension go out of her body with it. She relaxes around him, sliding a few millimeters down. He squeezes her shoulders a few times, and moves his hands to her hips. She nuzzles the back of her head against his chest. She’s calm and relaxed.

He bucks up and pulls down, pops inside in one go. Ana lets loose a high-pitched yelp, and another as her body reacts, her insides clamping down on him, locking them together. James groans into her hair.

The pressure is incredible, delightful, but now is not the time to concentrate on himself. The girl on his lap is rigid, her breath frozen. She takes a breath and it comes back out sounding dangerously close to a sob. She rocks forward, tugging gently on their connection.

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her back.

“Shhh, shh shh. It’s alright, just relax. Take a breath for me. That’s a girl.”

One arm holding her securely in place like a seatbelt, the other running up and down her back, massaging the nape of her neck, where he plants a field of kisses. She shudders, but slowly starts to relax and breath easy.

“There now. How’s that?”

“Mmnh. F-feels good…feels hot…”

He massages her belly, which is swollen slightly out with him in it. Her insides still clamp tight about him, but her thighs relax, and she’s back to craning against him and opening spaces for him to play with her. He can stop holding her down and use both hands.

“See now? This is nice.”

Her only response is renewed panting. She grabs his hand and drags it down, grinds it against her clit. She’s burning hot, and he takes her unsubtle hint and helps her out. She comes explosively almost at once, clamping down ferociously, and not letting up much at all once her orgasm is over. She’s panting, shuddering, dripping sweat and fluids all over him, and still locked on tight.

She’s amazing.

James swirls his fingers down south and brings them to her face. He smears her nose with her own juices, letting her smell herself, and slides two fingers in her mouth. She sucks contentedly, and he runs his tongue in long, smooth strokes up the back of her neck.

“There now. That’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Mm-hmn, mn.”

“Having fun?”

“Mmmn.”

“Good.”

He kisses her temple, and slides the hand she’s not sucking back down. The first rule of knotting is Happy Omegas. Even alphas who like to play a little rougher know, once you’re tied, you do everything you can to keep your partner happy. A panicking or inexperienced omega man try to jerk away, and could hurt one or both parties. A good alpha keeps their partner from wanting to part.

She’s sucked all of herself off his fingers, so he starts again from the top of her head down, petting hair, cupping her face to kiss her jaw, massaging her arms, kneading her breasts. He keeps one hand busy between her legs at all times, preoccupying her with orgasms so she won’t think to bolt. She shudders and sweats and makes small, monosyllabic vowel sounds, “oh oh oh” and “ah ah ah.” Her abdomen curls under his hand and her hips buck, and the rocking and the internal squeezing feels amazing.

She starts to cry out louder and leans forward, not to pull away, but bracing and pushing back harder. She’s really yowling, like a female cat, so hot and wet his knot slips out and pops back in with her movements. And though every re-entry thrust is met with one of her harsh yowls, she’s not stopping, or even slowing. James rests his hands on her hips and closes his eyes, letting her lead.

He can feel himself start to twitch. Muscles inside her ripple along his length, sucking and milking him just like her mouth on his fingers. He can smell her, her heat, her drive. At this moment, it’s almost alpha-like. And he’s so…very…close…

He grabs her hips and thrusts up at the same moment she pushes back. Once again his knot pops in and her ring clamps down, and her yell is matched by his grunt as he holds her in place. It feels so hot flowing into her. It comes in pulses and waves and his head feels light with no blood in it. Ana clutches the sheets and yells again, but he’s made her come enough he knows these moans and tremors are hard pleasure.

He’s not sure he’s ever going to stop, or if he’ll pass out from lack of oxygen. At last his own paroxysms stop. He gasps for air, stroking the white back in front of him, falling forward and kissing the knob of each vertebra he can reach.

Stay still. Please, just stay very still.

He’s not sure if he says it or thinks it as twinges and spasms twitch through him. Every movement or thought sends shivers of pleasure all through him.

Ana straddles him, face down in the sheets. The ring of muscle just inside her pulses sporadically, each pulse sending an answering one through him. James runs his hands over thighs, buttocks, and hips, whispering comforting nonsense words. Gradually, her spasms subside, and her internal vice grip relaxes. He slides out.

She lets out a long whine. James crouches over her, covering her with his body, his scent. Her vowel sounds have changed to small whimpers of “mh, mh, mh.”

“Here now. What’s wrong?”

She’s grabbing herself, and her thinks he’s hurt her. He pulls back to take a look and she crosses her legs under him, both hands buried in her crotch. White froth seeps between her fingers. There’s a damp patch on the sheets so big it looks like she wet herself, and still more spills out of her. She shuts her eyes tight and whines again.

“Oh, that’s…that’s nothing.”

He kisses her.

“Here, love, just let it happen. Just relax. I’ll get ye a towel.”

He brings three. One dipped in cool water to bathe her hot places, one to dry her, and one more to put over the sweet-smelling wet spot.

He laughs when he stands her up. They’re both disgusting, but she is covered. Sticky trails slide over her body, droplets on her belly, dried to flakes where he smeared her nose. It’s in her hair, how did he get it in her hair? Still,

“Nothing a shower won’t fix,” he says, and wraps his arms around her waist.

She puts hers around his neck and kisses him just as she did at first. The strong, urgent smell of need is gone from her, and she smells as she did when he first got a whiff of her: sweet, vital. Something he wants to protect.

A gentleman takes the wet spot. He lifts her up and deposits her in the bed. She winces a little like she’s sore (no doubt she is. Even experienced omegas go through a lot), but she doesn’t protest. When he gets in bed with her, she purrs and snuggles close. He takes off her glasses and sets them aside, and there’s nothing the shield him from those deep, dark eyes with that spark dancing inside them.

He cups her face and runs his thumb against her temple over and over and over. Until those dark eyes close, spark still dancing.

* * *

His father sniffs the air when he makes it back in.

“Phew!”

He gives his son’s rumpled clothes and messy hair a look and wrinkles his nose.

“You’re a disgrace,” he says.

But he says it with a smile.


	4. Chapter 4

"Phone for you, sir."

"For me?"

"They asked for the one with the most numbers after his name, sir."

James takes the offered handset. It's not often a call comes to this number for him and not his father.

"Did they say who was calling?"

"A young lady, sir. She said you'd know who it was."

His hopes leap and he tries not to let it show on his face. He angles away from the line of engineers working on their computers in the lab

"Hello?"

"James?"

After two months, the sound of her voice melts him. He steps further away from the engineers, cups the phone to him.

"Ana. How are you?"

"I'm doing well, thank you."

She doesn't sound well. Even over the phone her voice sounds strained.

"Thank you for the flowers. I kept the vase."

He'd sent an arrangement to the funeral. Under the family name, not the company's.

"Of course, love. Glad you liked them. I'm sorry for the occasion."

"It's not your fault."

That's debatable. James casts about for something to say. He wants to keep her on the phone, but he doesn't know what to talk about. He wants her here, in front of him, in his arms again.

There's silence on the line. Have they lost the signal?

"Ana?"

"I'm here."

She sounds very small and unsure.

"Ana, listen...are you alright? If there's anything you need..."

Another long pause. He's about to call her name again, when she speaks.

"May I come see you?"

"What? Here in Scotland?"

"Yes."

His heart does a flip and clicks its heels.

"Yes!"

A few heads turn his way. James clears his throat and softens his voice.

"Ahem. Of course, my dear. I'd love to see you again. Sometime during the winter holiday, maybe?"

"I was thinking maybe sooner."

"Aye?"

"I'm in the country now."

What country? This country?

"You're in Scotland?"

"Yes. So could I...That is to say...How soon do you suppose I might see you?"

He's so elated his brain doesn't register how tense she still sounds. A big, foolish grin stretches across his face as he says,

"As soon as you like. Name the time and I'll be there."

"Can you come get me right now?"

* * *

He's a little less elated after twenty minutes on the road. It's pelting down rain, and the roads out here aren't all paved, much less lit. He's frowning into the night, watching out for potholes and stray sheep, and wondering what possessed the girl.

Still, he looks forward to asking her in person. The two months since they've seen each other have passed with her in his mind every day. There's a bag in his room, sealed air tight, with two of his shirts in it. One is stained with the marks of her fingertips, her brother's red blood aged to brown. The other is stained only with James's own sweat, but thick with pheromones. Neither shirt has been washed since the jungle, and neither ever will be. They smell of her.

James turns a final bend and the headlights wash over a tiny, pale figure whose umbrella has long ago ceased to be any help. Anastasia huddles near a small wood bench, under an awning which is no use against the rain blowing sideways. The headlights catch her glasses and light up their lenses. She looks like a small, shivery animal caught in their beams.

James pulls to a stop. Ana looks at the car, but doesn't approach. He rolls down the window.

“Did ye call a cab?”

She runs over and leans in the window, kisses him through the open window. Her lips are wet and cold form the rain. Her teeth chatter so hard she can't get his name out.

"D-d-j-Hz-Djzhames!"

"Get inside, love. What're you doing out here in this mess?"

She struggles with the umbrella, trying to wrestle it closed, until he reaches through and takes it from her, ushering her around to the passenger's seat. He slides it shut and pulls it in, rolling up the window as she falls into the seat and shuts the door. The rain patters down on the hood, but they are now shut away from it.

James just looks at her. For the second time, she meets him with clear fluid dripping from the end of her nose.

But this is no polite little tear. She's streaming with water. Rivers run down her face and her hair, plastered to her, is like a black waterfall. Her glasses are a field of droplets. If he'd known she was going to go swimming, he'd have brought a towel.

"Why aren't you in some nice, dry hotel somewhere?"

"I came as far as the bus would take me, then I asked directions and hitchhiked. This was as far as I got, but I found a phone."

"Hitchhiked? Ana - "

"I needed to see you."

Well, he can't be mad at her for that. She leans forward, kisses him, getting water all over the both of them. Her smell is warm under the cold wet. Warm and soft, and somehow milkier than he remembered. He adores her smell, but there's something rotten in it. A sour, overripe scent, like bad wine. The smell of an omega who's not just in distress, but suffering from some chronic strain.

James squeezes water from her long hair. She leans over the gearshift and hugs him. He wraps his arms around her shivering form and holds her.

"Ana, what's this about?"

Her words are muffled against his chest like two months before, but he hears them clearly:

"I'm pregnant."


End file.
